Sort it Out
by scrub456
Summary: Discussion, concussions, and parallel universes. A bit of epic best friend silliness. Another Towel Day prompt fill. *A bit OOC, but with intent. Warning for dubious use of pop culture references.*


***A/N***

I got very behind on Towel Day prompts (real life has been difficult recently), so here's another in the series.

"If somebody thinks they're a hedgehog, presumably you just give 'em a mirror and a few pictures of hedgehogs and tell them to sort it out for themselves." - Douglas Adams

* * *

Sherlock leaned back and stretched from his slump over the microscope, blinking in surprise when he realized the lateness of the hour. When had he started his experiment? Had the whole afternoon gone? His stomach actually rumbled with hunger, an annoying signal of time passed he'd only started acknowledging of late. Only since John…

John.

John never let him go this long without some sort of cursory wellness check. Sherlock inspected the mug next to him. Empty and long cold. Half a cheese sandwich sat untouched from John's attempt to coax him into lunch. The bread was stale and the cheese looked suspect, but his stomach rumbled again, so Sherlock scooped it up and took a bite as he stood to look for his flatmate.

His search led him quite easily to the last place he had seen him. John was in his chair, a cup of tea gone completely cold at his elbow. Sherlock choked down a swallow of the bitter, unsweetened tea to dislodge a bit of too dry sandwich from his throat. The glow of John's laptop was the only light in the darkened sitting room. The man himself sat alarmingly still, staring off toward the window beyond Sherlock's chair.

"John?" Sherlock laid the last bites of his sandwich on the side table and ducked down to study John's face. Looking him the eye, taking in the dull vacancy that seemed so wrong in those normally fathomless, expressive eyes, Sherlock frowned and eased the laptop away from John. The cursor blinked on an empty document. John's fingers twitched as if by instinct, and he blinked rapidly a few times, still not quite present.

"John?" He switched on a reading lamp.

"Sherlock? What…" John shook his head as if to clear it, and took a deep breath. "You okay?"

"I should be asking you the same." Sherlock showed him the blank page, closed the laptop and tossed it to his own chair.

"Careful," John sighed as he stretched and scrubbed his hand down his face. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Tea?"

John inspected his cold mug and turned up his nose. He spotted the sandwich and grimaced. "You didn't."

"Needs must. And my assistant seems to have passed on his duties in favor of daydreaming." Sherlock stepped back to allow John to stand slowly with a groan.

"Duties? Since when is making you - a fully grown and functional adult - food part of my duties as your 'assistant?'" John shuffled his way to the kitchen, working a kink from his shoulder.

Sherlock pretended to search for a response. "Since, 'here, use mine?'" He shrugged, and studiously examined his fingernails.

John surprised them both with a laugh. "Right." He put the kettle on and turned to dig through the refrigerator for anything resembling something edible. Sherlock could hear him mumbling about irksome flatmates and pompous, lazy gits. He couldn't help but smile.

"But ARE you all right, John?"

"Hmm?" John stood quickly and smacked the back of his head on the fridge with a swear. He steadied himself and turned to face his friend.

"You seem… distracted. Even for you."

"'Ta." John huffed. He chewed his lip for a moment, considering his words. "It was just… Something. I don't know. Something about that case maybe…"

"What, John? Did you notice something?" Excited, Sherlock took a few steps closer.

"Mmm, no." John shook his head as if pained. "I don't… No. That's not it. I just… This is going to sound absolutely mad."

"I would expect no less." Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at John, who chuckled and snapped a tea towel at him. "Seriously, John. What has you troubled?"

"Nothing, really. It's just…" The kettle clicked off and John poured out two mugs. He turned to face Sherlock and leaned against the worktop to wait for the tea to steep. "Do you ever get the feeling you've done this all before?"

"All?" Perplexed, Sherlock squinted in confusion.

"All. The struggle. Life." John shrugged. "Like this isn't the first go-around?"

"I've certainly experienced déjà vu. Is that what you mean?" Sherlock reached behind John for the sugar and added an obscene quantity to his own mug.

"No, not really. It's more than just a familiarity." John sniffed the milk, winced, and decided against it. "It's more a feeling of having lived another life entirely, and every once in a while something in this life calls that other life to recollection."

"Reincarnation?" Sherlock couldn't help sounding a bit incredulous. John sighed, looked away from him, and stared down into his mug. Leaning against the worktop, emulating John's posture, Sherlock pressed his shoulder against John's.

"No, not exactly…" John blushed. "It's not like that, it's… Just… forget it. Forget I said anything. Please."

"John," Sherlock turned to face his friend. "Help me understand."

"I can't! That's the problem. Sometimes… Sometimes it just feels like maybe I've had this same terrible cuppa before, but perhaps it was made by a robot on a spaceship."

"A spaceship?" Sherlock, eyes wide, set his cup down slowly.

"Yeah," John sniffed and refused to make eye contact. "Or like I've met a random stranger before, but somewhere else. Maybe I sold him insurance in the States." He finally turned his gaze up. "Even you. Sometimes I feel like… Well, like we've done this all before. But in a different time."

"Alternate realities?" The corner of Sherlock's mouth quirked up.

John sagged back against the worktop, shrugged, and stared back into his tea.

"Fascinating."

"You're taking the piss," John mumbled.

"I'm not," Sherlock actually grinned. "Theoretical physicists have proven the possibility of the existence of multiple realities. Even Stephen Hawking, who coincidentally I feel an unusual kinship to despite having never met the man, believes it is possible."

"You…" John furrowed his brow and blinked up at his friend.

"Your psychosis is perhaps more common than you believe, John." Sherlock shrugged and studied John's face. "Once you've eliminated the impossible…"

"Hmmm. Yeah." John nodded thoughtfully, and gingerly rubbed the back of his head.

"What were you thinking earlier, John?"

"Ha. I uhm…" John blushed again, and then winced as he rubbed his head. "I was thinking I… Once upon a time… Maybe felt like a sofa."

"A sofa." Sherlock huffed and took the final step into John's personal space. He gently pulled John's hand away, and wrapped his own long fingers around the back of John's head.

"Sher-" John stuttered as Sherlock stared intently into his eyes. "What…"

"John." Voice low, Sherlock pulled John marginally closer, large hands still cradling his head.

"Yeah?" John breathed, not wanting to even blink.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "How hard did that suspect hit you?"

John exhaled deeply. "Definitely harder than I let on at the time."

"I suspected as much." Sherlock pursed his lips. "And you just hit your head again."

"That wasn't entirely my fault." John huffed.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock released his hold and stepped back. "Concussion?"

"Rather severe, I think." John nodded and winced again.

"Let me just get changed."

"I'll get our coats."

"John?" Sherlock called over his shoulder.

"Yeah, Sherlock?"

"Do try not to get beamed up. Or let Mrs. Hudson mistake you for a piece of furniture to be polished."


End file.
